


When the Water is Holy

by D20Owlbear



Series: Love and Joy and Happiness [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Priests, Aziraphale is still very bad at communicating his feelings, Crowley is still very bad at thinking himself worthy, Crowley's POV and he's a bit all over the place, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Priest Aziraphale (Good Omens), Priest Crowley (Good Omens), Priests AU, Sickfic, a little bit you go to fast for me and a little bit holy water fight without the fighting, and love don't forget the love, and wholly unprepared to actually SAY it, at least not aloud, at least not where you can be heard, gayforgoodomens priests au inspired, just the worry, that certainly aren't a Metaphor noooo, weird fever dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:27:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28707384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D20Owlbear/pseuds/D20Owlbear
Summary: Father Crowley falls ill and has all sorts of interesting fever dreams.Father Fell has something to say about revelations."It's alright, my dear," Aziraphale murmured leaning forward to press a small cup of chicken broth into his hands, suddenly too quiet and too earnest again for Crowley's poor heart to handle. "Love is not love if it alters when alteration it finds."
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Love and Joy and Happiness [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1938955
Comments: 28
Kudos: 70
Collections: Clerical Omens





	When the Water is Holy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cassieoh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassieoh/gifts).



> Thank you so much cassieoh for the great prompt "A moment together blessing the water would be nice" which immediately turned worse!!

"Father Crowley?" Father Fell called from the sacristy, still pulling on his vestments for the rite, and Crowley groaned loudly from his spot, halfway through the doors to the vestibule from the parsonage.

"Yeah?" Crowley yelled back, trying his best to hide how completely out of breath he was. _Good Lord_ two gallons of water in an overly large thermos shouldn't be this difficult to carry for Crowley, but here he was nearly wheezing and overheating from the exertion. Normally a trip like this was easy enough, even when the water was still hot and the steam wafted in his face, fogging up his glasses…

"Are you ready? You have the water, yes, my dear?" Father Fell stepped into the vestibule and headed to the font for holy water, which had been emptied and scrubbed clean, to keep it from gathering any impurities or allowing algae to grow. Thankfully Father Fell had let Crowley take some clear sealant to the font to make sure nothing would try to take hold in the tiny pits of stone. He had a feeling Father Fell would still insist on cleaning the font thoroughly every other month still –just as he had for the last four months– but it should make sterilizing it easier in the future, even though Father Fell nearly clutched his pearls when Crowley had suggested just bleaching the thing. 

"Got it," Crowley grumbled and took a deep, steadying breath before hefting the container up again and shuffling over to the empty font. A deft flick of the wrist and Aziraphale started the water draining into the font, frowning just a little.

"Are you alright, dear boy?" Aziraphale asked, his frown deepening and Crowley furrowed his brows before realizing he was hunched over the font, a forearm on the stone and his other hand clinging to the emptying canister.

"Oh!" Crowley shot up and staggered a little, just barely keeping a hold on the water can. "No, I– I'm fine! Jus'... wanderin' thoughts." Crowley mumbled and his eyes slid closed behind his glasses, feeling too dry to keep open even another second. Father Fell didn't say anything, Crowley turned his head to look away but the weight of Father Fell's gaze didn't fall from his face for a long while.

Father Fell sighed and shifted, his clothing rustling with every movement and Crowley deliberately didn't look, worried his head would rush again if he moved at all, let alone too quickly. And then Father Fell began the prayers.

Crowley couldn't really tell if it was the normal cadence that Father Fell prayed with to exorcise the water and to purify it, or if the prayer to exorcise the salt was the same rolling hum that felt almost like thunder the closer he listened to it. It didn't rattle his bones or worry him, Father Fell never had, but he had that way about him that made you dwell on thoughts of rain coming, maybe tomorrow or the next day, the distant smell of ozone gathering up into clouds and lightning and made you think to get out your favorite blanket and make sure the fireplace was in working order for a cozy stay at home.

"–ther Crowley? Crowley!" Aziraphale sounded worried. Crowley jerked up woozily, vowels falling from his mouth in confusion as he slowly came back to himself.

"Crowley, my dear, you're burning up!" The inside of Aziraphale's wrist was on his forehead and Crowley's head felt like the inside of a boiled kettle, whistling loud and clear and utterly unsure what to do about it.

Aziraphale stepped closer and Crowley felt it. He'd apparently already been half-way into the man's arms, held up by the elbows, but now his chest was flush against Aziraphale's, and strong arms were wrapped around him.

On an unrelated note, his knees buckled.

His face fell against Aziraphale's shoulder unattractively, sides and bridge of his glasses digging into his face and it took a couple seconds of disorientation to realize that Aziraphale was holding him up entirely now, arms wrapped securely around Crowley's waist and pressed tight against the man's chest. Somehow, nothing had ever felt safer and it was a chore not to fall even more limp than he already was.

"Hrnk," Crowley slurred, "I'm fine, 's fine!" As good as it felt to be held against the cool fabric of Aziraphale's vestments, and as obvious of a lie it was spewing from his lips, no one liked to be made to care for someone else, and certainly not someone else like Crowley.

"Oh hush!" Aziraphale chided immediately, "You are _not_ fine, Crowley!" Crowley wheezed as Aziraphale hefted him up and took even more of his weight even as Crowley's arm hung limply without much of a working brain to tell them to do anything. And then they were moving, Aziraphale was absolutely carrying Crowley more than leading him, or even dragging him, and Crowley couldn't help but think that was pretty neat.

"–ow did you even get yourself like this, dear?" Aziraphale asked, his voice high and reedy like it was strained and Crowley didn't at all like that sound, so he just shrugged as best he could and frowned.

"Oh don't you shrug at _me_ , Crowley–" Aziraphale scolded, Crowley's frown grew deeper and he cut off whatever else Aziraphale was preparing to scold him with.

"Yer nae my ma, 'Ziraph'le," Crowley slurred, his accent coming in heavier the more tired he became, the northern brogue thickening on his tongue and in his mouth 'till there wasn't room for much else, let alone a classier accent.

Aziraphale sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, for which Crowley immediately felt bad. He hadn't meant to… antagonize the man, especially not when he was just worried for him. It'd be fine, Crowley was made of sterner stuff than river water.

"M'fine, 'Ziraphale," Crowley muttered, the fight falling out of him as surely as prayer from a priest's lips and he let his cheek rest on Aziraphale's shoulder his forehead pressed into the crook of Aziraphale's neck, it was cool and so very nice on his overheated skin. "Was jus' water, fallin' in, ta tha river."

Aziraphale suddenly went still, Crowley could feel him tense with how he was being held up, "You _fell_ ," he said slowly, and Crowley thought that he might need to pay attention, it felt important about something, but he couldn't seem to tell why through his foggy, muzzy brain.

"S'alright, once ya get used to it," Crowley mumbled and swayed a little in Aziraphale's grasp when the man took a half-step back, and didn't even try anymore to keep himself upright, following and leaning on Aziraphale fully.

"Oh dear," Crowley felt more than heard Aziraphale say. There were a few moments of dithering noises and hums from the priest before he sighed and shook his head, tutting his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

"Well, nothing for it, I suppose. Hang on, dear!" Aziraphale said, lips up close to Crowley's ear in a way that would normally make him shiver. Well, he shivered this time too, but that's because it had gotten so bloody cold! 

Crowley trembled, feeling like he'd shake apart, his teeth chattered and his legs felt numb and even though he knew it wasn't a frozen wasteland outside—he'd just been there! It was just about balmy for an Autumn day!—Crowley couldn't quite make himself believe it.

"S'rry," Crowley mumbled, not really sure what he was apologizing for, but maybe it was for the way he couldn't stop himself from leaning into Aziraphale's warmth, how he couldn't stop himself like he normally would from invading the man's space and forcing his presence or touch upon him. Crowley never did like touch, not until he met Aziraphale, it was always such a sharp feeling and sometimes even his clothing felt rough and staticky and could hardly be borne. But Aziraphale had a way about him, calm and soothing, and even his touch was a balm to his soul.

Aziraphale's hands were never sharp, his skin never stirred up restless anxiety in Crowley, and he never darted away from Crowley's touch in return, never made it feel like something to be reviled or shunned. Aziraphale carried him, and Crowley did not feel like a burden, even if he thought he probably should have had better-working legs on the walk to– actually, Crowley wasn't sure of where they were going anymore.

"Ang'l?" Crowley muttered blearily, barely realizing he'd interrupted whatever Aziraphale was saying. Something about sorry, maybe? "S'not yer faul', jus' fell, 's fine. 'N a river. 'Sok, m'fine jus'... golly, 'Zirph'le where're we goin'?"

Aziraphale stopped and sighed so heavily Crowley felt the blow of air across his neck and oh good lord that felt _heavenly_ , cool and sweet, except he was also so cold so cool shouldn't feel nice, but his head hurt _so badly_ and his eyes burnt like brimstone even when he kept them closed and pressed into Aziraphale’s neck.

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale murmured, "I'm putting you to bed, you shouldn't have been up at all! Worked yourself into a right fever you did."

Crowley tried to retort back about never working up a fever in his life but couldn't quite seem to manage the words around the too-thick tongue in his mouth before he was off balance and dizzy, the whole world spun rapidly and Crowley groaned. One moment he was against Aziraphale's chest and shoulder and the other he was laying down. The sheets on the bed were cool, and soft, oh gloriously soft. Crowley moaned in relief, burying his face into the pillow.

"Hold still, you monster," Aziraphale grumbled, just loudly enough to make Crowley crack an eye open, unsure when he'd closed them, and turn his head to look up at Aziraphale.

"Hah," Crowley chuckled, " _Yer_ an angel."

"Oh shush, you, take off your shirt. And where are your spares? You've sweated through this one and I can't imagine your tab is going to be comfortable to sleep in." Aziraphale worried at his fingertips, twisting his hands together to fret, and Crowley had never liked that habit, the worry Aziraphale held bothered him. Aziraphale didn't deserve to have to worry so much, least of all about _Crowley_.

"Nah, 's fine, angel." Crowley reached out and smacked one of his hands over Aziraphale's, squeezing them in what he hoped was comfort, and blinked dumbly when his eyes caught Aziraphale's as he looked up. Aziraphale only sighed again and left the room, making Crowley whine unhappily but, ultimately, bury his face back into the pillow. Tears gathered in his eyes, but it was because they burnt! No other reason. Crowley hadn't cried about being left since he was eight and he wasn't about to start again now! 

And then! Aziraphale came back, he held an undershirt in his hands that looked well-worn and soft and helped Crowley sit up, legs over the side of the bed and swaying slightly to stay upright. A few murmured words Crowley couldn't fully understand and Aziraphale was unbuttoning Crowley's shirt. First the clerical tab was taken from his collar, then his shirt was pushed off his shoulders, and his undershirt was pulled from his trousers where it was tucked in and shucked off over his head.

The cool air on Crowley's bare skin made him shiver so hard his muscles hurt and punched a groan out from his chest. He hunched down instinctively to curl away from the cold, but Aziraphale caught his shoulders. He was talking, his voice was soothing, but for the life of him Crowley couldn't seem to understand what the words meant, he knew he _should_ , they were all words, he understood them, surely, but couldn't grasp the meaning in anything being said anymore. It ought to be frightening, but Crowley couldn't quite being himself to worry with Aziraphale there.

Aziraphale grabbed his wrist to push through a new shirt, which was as soft as it looked thankfully, and then his other wrist, after that Aziraphale pulled the shirt over his head and paused for a moment to wring his hands again before pulling the belt form Crowley's waist and then the trousers off his legs. Crowley could only let himself be moved around dumbly, but he trusted Aziraphale, what wasn't there to trust? Aziraphale could have him whatever way he wanted, and Crowley would just be happy to be there with him.

The shivers began again en force and they wracked Crowley's frame until all his body ached and his teeth hurt from how hard he clenched his jaw to keep them from chattering. Aziraphale's voice murmured in the background, occasionally coming closer and accompanied by being wrapped up in probably-blankets. It was hard to tell, everything happened too fast and also through a haze that made it difficult to figure out how to move his own limbs and focus on what Aziraphale was saying. So, Crowley gave up. Sleep sounded a lot easier, even if the chill in the room was enough to make it miserable, but maybe Aziraphale would forgive him for not listening. He was always far too forgiving for stupid mistakes, Crowley thought.

Crowley slipped in and out of sleep, and each time he woke disoriented but was quicker to figure out where he was before being drawn back under the layers of blankets. Sometimes he woke to a pile of blankets over his body and a cold compress on his forehead and other times he woke with one leg wrapped around all the covers and twisted up in them feeling overheated even as he was mostly uncovered. But each time he dragged himself into consciousness, there was a glass of water and a blister pack of medication on his bedside table waiting for him and unused cold compresses waiting to be cracked.

The third time Crowley woke, it was dark and he clamored for the medication and water, managing to get it down and sneeze a bit. He was soon pulled back into his fevered dreams of flying on great black wings and falling into the ocean only to rise again as a sin-black serpent.

The fifth time Crowley woke, it was day again and the sun was only just barely coming up from the horizon painting the whole of his room grey with early-morning light. An alarm went off through a wall, Aziraphale's room, and Crowley turned over after shucking off another blanket or two and snuggling into the softest, most comfortably large shirt he'd ever been in. For the life of him though, he couldn't remember where he'd gotten it from… and he fell asleep to thoughts of being wrapped up by the white wings of an angel who he knew he loved desperately, but who would not allow him to see their face.

And then, at the seventh break in his fever, Crowley woke to Aziraphale sitting by his bedside in a chair with a book in hand. His half-moon spectacles sat precariously far down his nose and he seemed to be aimlessly turning pages rather than really reading.

"Angel?" Crowley croaked, shifting underneath the covers only to find he'd been tucked in, tight and comforting. It took a few seconds to wriggle weakly under the blankets until he was free to turn over onto his side and really look at Aziraphale.

"Ya look awful," he muttered and rubbed at his eyes for a moment before realizing that his sunglasses were gone. Where did they get off to? Crowley looked around with bleary eyes before Aziraphale's bark of startled laughter interrupted his thoughts, drawing them back to the priest.

"Oh, I'm sure I do, my dear," Aziraphale murmured, reaching over to take Crowley's hand between his and pat the back of it gently. Crowley's thoughts jolted, if he'd thought they'd switched tracks when Aziraphale laughed they'd entirely stopped and wouldn't start again with how soft his hands were on Crowley's skin. Nevermind that it was only his hand, nevermind that they touched plenty and Crowley should be used to it, it just… it was different somehow right now, in his room and wrapped up in blankets in only his pants and a too-large, undershirt soft with age and wear.

"Ya alright?" Crowley's words ran together in his mouth, slurring on his tongue that felt just a little too clumsy and inexact, even if he'd just woken from some of the weirdest dreams of his life. Even if they made him feel oddly safe and loved and– well, _good_ dreams, or perhaps they were Great in the old testament way of the word, confusing and ineffably incomprehensible except for the unease they left him with right beside the better feelings. But that was something to think about another time, not when Aziraphale was… sitting at his bedside looking hundreds of times less worried than he did just seconds ago.

"Yes, darling," Aziraphale's voice was soft and so genuinely earnest that Crowley had to shut his eyes against the brightness practically gathering around Aziraphale's face. The man could certainly glow when he was happy, of that Crowley had always been sure. "Just a little tired, I suppose."

"S'zat what you get for sittin' up readin' all night?" Crowley grumbled, popping open an eye to level Aziraphale with a pointed look. He received a sigh in response.

"Yes, yes, dear." Aziraphale pretended to frown for a moment before breaking out into soft, nearly inaudible chuckles, clearly privately chuffed. "Do forgive me, Crowley. I… I couldn't bring myself to stray from you far unless I had to for home visits on Friday. It– you worried me, you know."

Crowley had quite a few things to say about that, like what day was it if it wasn't Friday, and did he miss all the home visits, is that why Aziraphale was so tired looking, and an admonition that Aziraphale absolutely shouldn't worry about Crowley because he was still… he was still paying all his penance. You're not meant to worry for a man who wasn't done paying off his debts to God. But all that came out was a wheeze of a word rendering him incomprehensible and wagging his jaw uselessly.

Somehow, though, Aziraphale seemed to know what he meant, or at least the gist of it. "It's Monday, darling, you've been asleep for two and half days, on and off. You collapsed with a fever badly on Friday and —oh don't you give me that look! You ought to have told me you took a spill in the river gathering water for the font, it's still practically ice these days for all that we're ostensibly in spring!— and oh, Crowley, I was so worried for you. I called the local doctor, you know Mr. Morgan he rather likes you for finding his granddaughter that one time when she'd run off you know–"

"Angel!" Crowley sputtered and laughed, cutting Aziraphale off with a longsuffering smile.

"I– yes, Crowley?" Aziraphale smiled back, just a touch smug, presumably at Crowley's cackle of a laugh that Aziraphale inexplicably seemed to delight in.

"Sorry, that I worried you, I mean." Crowley shoved himself to sit up and Aziraphale busied himself with a thermos on the bedside table, fumbling just a little to take the cup off the top before twisting it open in steadier hands.

"It's alright, my dear," Aziraphale murmured leaning forward to press a small cup of chicken broth into his hands, suddenly too quiet and too earnest again for Crowley's poor heart to handle. "Love is not love if it alters when alteration it finds."

Crowley fought down the heat in his cheeks at that and shoved his face against the rim of the plastic screw-top cup to hide his eyes and how small and open and vulnerable such a declaration made him feel. He scoffed nonchalantly, hoping he sounded far more relaxed than he felt.

"Ya can't quote Shakespeare at me, 'Ziraphale, I didn't get none of yer fancy university learnin'," Crowley muttered into the broth as he took sips of it, the warmth of it soothing on his throat, finding himself parched in ways he hadn't realized he could be outside of manual labor in the direct sunlight.

Aziraphale only smiled and stood, and ran his fingers through Crowley's hair from his forehead to his crown, pushing his hair back from his face, and paying no mind to how Crowley froze, the whole force of his attention on the touch of Aziraphale's fingertips. He took a few steps towards the open doorway and, upon reaching it, looked back at Crowley to smile at him so _genuinely_ Crowley had to avert his eyes.

"I wouldn't change you at all, Crowley. You are dear to me, and I would be very sore at you if you were to leave me, especially from something like a fever. You…" Aziraphale's voice broke and fell, a jarring juxtaposition with his smile which hadn't changed one whit, which made Crowley's stomach twist and churn in uncertainty. Was… were all of Aziraphale's smiles so perfectly genuine that his worry and sadness was hidden behind a mask without flaw? The thought gripped Crowley's chest like a physical hand of dread.

"You're a good man, Crowley," Aziraphale continued, bouncing back to sounding like easy morning sunshine personified, "And I would miss you, very much. If you left… for any reason, though your loss would pain me, dreadfully so, if it were permanent, I think. I– please. Don't go so _fast_ , Crowley, to a place I cannot follow..."

And with that, before Crowley had a chance to say anything in reply to the thousands of revelations falling on his shoulders like so many kilos of water from whitewater rapids, Aziraphale pulled Crowley's door closed behind him and the sounds of his shoes were a muffled echo on the stone floors in the hallway heading away.

"Yeah…" Crowley whispered to himself, "Yeah. Me too."

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me in a couple of places! I absolutely love to be talked to! Please come interact with me if you're this way inclined~
> 
> My Twitter: <https://twitter.com/Great_Ass_aFire>  
> My Tumblr: <https://d20owlbear.tumblr.com/>
> 
> If you like what I write, please think about supporting me, links in my pinned Tumblr post about how to do so!
> 
> ALSO!! If you've got any prompts or anything you'd like to see these two knuckleheads get up to, please drop me a comment here, on tumblr, or on twitter!


End file.
